H Y M N
A constant swimming of
Music notes for the
Dead.
A collection of twinkling
Glass pieces on the
Ivory keys of a grand
Piano.
A composition of fragments,
Crafted and woven into
Thin air and silver
Threads; a cashmere
Sweater of melody.
A comforting percussion,
Echoes of a glass
Armonica.
So, this is a symphony for
You, my friend, you are nearing
The end of your lifespan,
A hymn for the dead.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
